Lord Cearnach Liddel

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Gender: Male

Age: 26

Hair: Red

Eyes: Blue

Distinguishing Marks: Near every inch of Cearnach's skin is marked with symbols, knots and glyphs, the meaning of which are obscure. Some are inked and permanent; others painted in woad. In addition, numerous scars mar his body - some dealt by human blade and arrow, others by animal claw and tooth, still others by forces unnatural and unknown.

General Appearance: Deep red hair, undercut, often worn with a closely trimmed beard. Arresting eyes a vivid, cerulean blue. Large-boned, heavy in the arms and chest; an axewielder's build. In cities, at court, he favors sleekly cut dark coats that emphasize his height, understate his strength. Deep in the primordial woods, stalking unnatural prey amongst green shadows and tangled briars, his manner of dress becomes considerably less civilized. Furs and fleeces. Rough canvas, thick wool. Bare skin marked with woad. And in the deepest woods, on the darkest hunts, he is nothing less than harrowing: a menacing creature covered in spell-script, his face lost beneath a helm fashioned from the skull of something unspeakable thing. Barely human himself.


HISTORY

Personality: The firstborn son of a Grand Duke, Cearnach was raised as the heir-apparent he is. Instructed from the time he could walk to hold his head high; told from the time he could think that he was superior to other men, destined for greater things. Tutors in every imaginable subject have given him an education scholars would envy, but no one needed to teach him his arrogance and entitlement. Those are innate and inborn, as much a part of his fabric as the red of his hair, the blue of his eyes.

Years of hunting nightmares in the Weald have rendered Cearnach somewhat less fit for polite company. There's a directness about him, for in the company of fellow Hunters he need not employ much in the way of subtlety. And there is a certain cynicism about him, for in the face of what he has seen and done the concerns of sheltered nobility seem curiously remote to him. Whatever strange and wondrous things transpired in the heart of the forest seem to have scrambled his moral compass somewhat, unmoored him from the strict teachings of the Church. His personal code is said to track closer to that of the fey and fell things he's trafficked with all this time, driven not by right or wrong but by wants and needs, anchored not by law and order but by claims and pacts. Still, whatever else he may have forgotten or chosen to forget, Cearnach's awareness of his status, rank and destiny remains ineradicable. He knows, the way he knows the color of his own blood, the way he knows the look in prey's eyes as it dies, that the day will come when he stalks from the forests for the last time, casts off his furs and antlers for good, and dons the coronet and chain of the Grand Duke of Tiraniúir.

Sexual Preferences: Wild rumors abound: that out in the wilds he's taken any number of lovers and indulged in all manner of perversions; that he's hunted sylphs and nymphs not for their blood but for their bodies; that he's spent a season enslaved by a fey queen; that he's forgotten, or perhaps never knew, what it is to enjoy the untainted love of a godly woman.

House (Major or Minor House): House Liddel, main line.


About the Character:
The firstborn of Caomhán and Niamh, it was always known that Cearnach would one day succeed his father. Tradition holds that one cannot hope to rule Tiraniúir without first understanding the Weald. For most heirs of Tiraniúir, this means a season or two spent in the company of the Wardens. Caomhán however was a staunch traditionalist, determined that his son would be raised in the way of his ancestors - those ancient and half-legendary figures out of antiquity who were said to be half-fey themselves, and who spent most their lives roaming the Weald.

So it is that Cearnach has stalked the depths of the Weald since his sixteenth birthday. First as a Warden, a ranger patrolling the roads and the outer verges of the Weald, responsible chiefly for the safety of travelers and the apprehension of poachers. Then, as he grew in renown and ability, as an Eldritch Hunter - a secretive order whose origins and purpose is little known to the world outside. For weeks and months at a time he disappears into the deep green, sometimes emerging victorious with mangled monstrosities in his wake; sometimes emerging bloodied and harrowed, his men decimated in his shadow.

Whatever the outcome, each time he emerged a little more changed. The boy who first walked into the depths of the Weald is no more. He too died somewhere out there, or was indescribably and indelibly altered. The man who prowled out of the forest's heart, summoned by blood and crown to some King's game of hearts - he is something else entirely. Some part of Cearnach was left behind in the Weald. A piece of his humanity, perhaps. In its place is a piece of the Weald itself instead: a fragment of wildness from the distant ragged fringes of reality, lingering about him like the scent of ozone after a lightning-strike, the smell of blood after a hunt.


About the Bloodsworn:
Bloodswearing is an ancient practice dating back before the Faith, Breiton, or even Tiraniúir existed. In those precivilized days, the Weald was peopled by half-feral pagans assembled into warring tribes each led by a chieftain. Might made right and rulership was usually decided by violence, but as hereditary chiefdoms began to rise, so too did chiefs begin to surround their sons with warriors whose fates and fortunes were tied to the heirs'. A Bloodsworn was just that: a man who has sworn his lifesblood to another, living as his master lives, dying as his master dies. Iúirian legends abound with tales of loyal Bloodsworn who took spears and arrows to save their chieftains from certain death, or else lived only long enough to avenge him before falling on their own swords. There are even tales of Bloodsworn who shared every intimate aspect of their masters' lives - eating from the same plate, drinking from the same cup, bedding the same women and, ultimately, rotting in the same grave - but it is unclear how much of these tales are apocryphal, and possibly circulated by rivals.

In olden times, Bloodsworn were often the younger sons of the chieftain, who swore themselves to their eldest brother both as a means of sharing in his life, power and glory - and, more pragmatically, as a way to circumvent fratricide in succession crises. Nowadays the tradition of Bloodswearing is nearly extinct, and really only the oldest branches of House Liddel practices it with much regularity. Rather than swearing younger sons of uncertain prowess to elders, it is often now promising young warriors of lower birth and proven loyalty who are sworn to the sons of great lords as those sons attained majority. Cearnach's Bloodsworn took their oaths some years ago. To this day, they remain Cearnach's shadows; his soldiers, his servants, and perhaps the closest thing he has to confidants.

The fourth son of a minor baron, Adair was always a minnow in the cruel waters of any court, but to the surprise of all he not only survived those vicious games but thrived - largely thanks to his quick wits and quicker tongue. Prior to his Blood-oath he'd managed to cultivate a reputation as someone best not crossed, and anyway - why would you want to? The boy was charming. Clever and full of cutting remarks, he is not quite cruel, but not quite kind either. Dark of hair, dark of eye, his boyish good looks make him seem younger than his 24 years. He is of average height, but his slender build and his proclivity for standing straight and proud give the illusion of height. He is, it is said, very good with a knife. He was the first of Cearnach's Bloodsworn, having taken his oaths a full ten years ago when Cearnach first donned the mantle of a Warden.

The eldest son of a blacksmith, Balfour has never had to survive court. He just had to survive the rough-and-tumble upbringing of a peasant boy who was a size smaller than most. What he lacked in height he quickly learned to make up in ferocity. Even at thirteen, he was known as a brawler who could put down men twice his size. Now, at 20, he's grown so muscular and thick across the shoulders he seems nearly as wide as he is tall. His father near burst with pride when Lord Cearnach accepted his Blood-oath seven year ago, but his mother wept, for she had hoped for Balfour a long and peaceful life. Any who look upon Balfour however know that was never in his cards. Compact and stocky, with short red-blond hair and a full beard, Balfour brims with violence and energy constantly looking for an outlet - or as some would say, a victim.


About the Grand Duchy of Tiraniúir:
Tiraniúir is dominated and defined by the Weald, an ancient, chthonic forest so dense and labyrinthine that no one has ever mapped its full extent. The edges of the forest are verdant and rich with game - a pleasant terrain of humid green shadows beneath sprawling trees boasting sunlit meadows, quiet glens, tranquil pools, clear rivers, cascading falls. Yet the deeper one goes, the stranger things get. Roots rise like the twisted fingers of sleeping gods. Branches twine together like lovers of dark myth whose bodies have fused. Moss and vines drape from gnarled trees older than mankind, and in some places a path cut through the undergrowth seems to grow closed faster than an axe can hack. Inhuman faces appear and disappear in the shadows. Shadows shift against the light. Sometimes, out of the corner of one's eye, one swears one glimpses beautiful and terrible things that should not - could not - exist.

Roads painstakingly maintained and patrolled by the Wardens slice through the heart of the forest. In the thickest parts of the Weald, these paths quite literally tunnel through old-growth trees like mineshafts through a mountain. Leave these for but a season and the path would be eradicated, so utterly overgrown one would not be able to say where it once lay. Only fools and Eldritch Hunters leave these lanes of (relative) safety.

Within Tiraniúir, numerous vassal duchies, counties and baronies exist, many of them held by blood-relatives of the ruling line. Of particular note is the Valgrene, a duchy located entirely within the sprawl of the Weald. Originally the demesne of the Hallgoods, it was revoked by the King himself when that minor house fell for alleged treachery against the crown. It was then granted to Caomhán's younger brother, Ruadh Liddel, for his valorous defense of his King, but remains a vassal duchy beneath the Grand Duchy of Tiraniúir's broader banners.

The stronghold of the main line Liddels, Trasnúbhán, is a city literally built into and around an ancient, impossibly huge ash-tree deep in the woods. Other cities and towns of varying design and architecture dot the grand duchy, but all in all Tiraniúir remains a sparsely populated land. In a way, all Liddels are but stewards of Tiraniúir, for it is the Wild that owns the wilderness.

The arms of the Grand Duchy of Tiraniúir is a black bull elk rampant on a field of red. Of note, the Valgrene has its own coat of arms (see Charlotte's description).


About the Wardens of the Weald and the Eldritch Hunters:
Caomhán Liddel doesn't exactly have a standing army. He has Wardens instead, veteran foresters, hunters and survivalists who slip soundlessly through green shadows. Famous throughout Breiton for their adaptability, cunning, and skill with axe and bow, they wear no uniform, but are nonetheless instantly identifiable by their light armor, their hooded cloaks, and the longbows and greataxes they nearly all favor. It is unclear exactly how many Wardens exist. However, nearly every man spends at least a few years of their youth amongst their ranks, maintaining and warding the great Weald that is the Liddel's treasure and burden.

The Eldritch Hunters are a much rarer and more rarefied breed. Little is known about them outside their ranks even by Iúiriads. Outside Tiraniúir, they are but rumors. The Liddels' enemies mostly assume they can't possibly exist. Tall tales told by the Liddels to impress the other Houses lest they are seen for what they are: primitive, wood-dwelling peoples with neither gold nor steel to their name.

A Hunter glimpsed mid-hunt might easily be mistaken for one of the very creatures they track, and that is by design. Like wolves in sheepskin, they adopt the guise of primal, wild, unearthly things. They wear no armor; they wear scant clothing, for that matter, and much of it as raw and primitive as possible. Beastskins with the fur still on. Rough twine braided from dried grasses and vines. Elaborate, terrifying headdresses crafted from trophies taken from unspeakable things. Every inch of bare skin covered in symbols the meaning of which they will not discuss.

The tales of their deeds are equally varied and strange: that they trace their lineage and draw their power from feytouched, godblooded heroes of the legendary age. That they prowl the deep Weald for seasons on end, stalking that which cannot and should not be named. That while they wander the wilds, they live, breathe, drink and dream the Hunt; that they poison themselves with mind-altering substances that render the otherworld visible, but at a cost. That while they are in the grip of the poison, the Hunters exist in a liminal state: half-dream, half-death, half-trance, half-madness. That they themselves become half-eldritch, imbued with forbidden power laced into their flesh and bones, protected by heretical spells etched into their very skins. That some can change their shapes and others their faces; that some can slip their bodies all together and wander as spirits; that all have walked so deep and ventured so far that they are fundamentally and irrevocably changed.

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OOC Notes

To clarify the geopolitics at play:
- Tiraniúir is the Grand Duchy ruled by Caomhán Liddel, to which Cearnach is heir.
- The Valgrene is a vassal Duchy within Tiraniúir, once ruled by House Hallgood, now ruled by Caomhán's younger brother, Ruadh Liddel.
- The Weald is a vast, primordial forest, the depths of which may or may not contain all manner of strange things. Parts of it can be quite pleasant, but its heart is dark and wild.
- The Duchy of Valgrene lies entirely within the (nicer parts of the) Weald, but the Weald extends past the Valgrene.

In regards to the supernatural overtones in my character's writeup: those rumors should be treated the same way supernatural rumors out of House Borgaza and House Von Roehm are treated - as just that, rumors. Maybe there's a kernel of truth there. Maybe it's all hallucinated by stir-crazy rangers who poisoned themselves with too much woad. Who's to say?